ometimes seems you're more Ship's Anthropologist than Captain," the
Engineer remarked.

"I'm an anthro-apologist, Hymie, like Mr. Kipling," the Captain said.
"_There are nine and sixty ways of constructing tribal lays.
And--every--single--one--of--them--is--right!_" Bells rang, and the ship
surged. "Aaron and Martha, God keep you," the Captain said.

* * * * *

"Whoa!" Aaron shouted. He peered back toward the ship, floating up into
grayness, the cavitation of her wake stirring the snow into patterns
like fine-veined marble. "_Gott saygen eich_," he said, a prayer for his
departing friends.

His wife shivered. "It's cold enough to freeze the horns off a
mooley-cow," she said. She glanced about at the snow-drifted little
trees and clutched her black cloak tighter. "I'm feared, Stoltz. There's
naught about us now but snow and black heathen."

"It's fear that is the heathen," Aaron said. "_By the word of the Lord
were the heavens made; and the host of them by the breath of His
mouth._" He kissed her. "I welcome you to our new homeland, wife," he
said.

Behind them Wutzchen--"piglet"--grunted. Martha smiled back at the giant
porker, perched amongst the cases and bags and household goods like the
victim of some bawdy chiavari. "I've never heard a pig mutter so," she
said.

"If he knew that his business here was to flatter the local lady-pigs
with farrow, Wutzchen would hop out and run," Aaron said.

"_Dummel dich_, Stoltz," Martha said. "I've got to make your supper yet,
and we don't have so much as a stove lit in our tent."

Stoltzfoos slapped the team back into motion. "What we need for our
journey home are a few of the _altie lieder_," he said, reaching back in
the wagon for his scarred guitar. He strummed and hummed, then began
singing in his clear baritone: "_In da guut alt Suumer-zeit_ ...

"... _In da guut alt Suumer-zeit_," Martha's voice joined him. As they
jolted along the path through the pine trees, heading toward
Datura-village, near which their homestead stood, they sang the other
homey songs to the music of the old guitar. "_Drawk Mich Zrick zu Alt
Virginye_," nostalgic for the black-garbed Plain-Folk left at home. Then
Aaron's fingers danced a livelier tune on the strings: "_Ich fang 'n
neie Fashun aw_," he crowed, and Martha joined in:

"A new fashion I'll begin," they sang,

"The hay I'll cut in the winter;

"When the sun-heat beats, I'll loaf in the shade.

"